


The Devil's Work

by Basingstoke



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: First Time, Ghosts, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-05
Updated: 2004-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:14:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley, post-Lineage, and the horror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Work

Wesley is considering drastic measure.

He's not psychic, after all. It wouldn't necessarily lead to tragedy if he had his sleep removed.

But it's very late, too late for such endeavors, so he is left to his own devices. Twenty-four floors to wander excluding Angel's penthouse suite; he's sure he'd be welcome there, but he's not willing to endure any more of the vampire's excruciating attempt at sympathy.

Souls don't come installed with tact. As evidence of that, Spike is now wandering alongside him. Occasionally he disappears to investigate someone's desk or move their pencils around.

Spike likes rearranging things. Wesley supposes it's for the simple reason that he can. Spike doesn't say anything, nor does Wesley.

He's checking for traps, taps, spells. He knows how his father thinks--not that this was his father's work. He knows that. He had his people look into it.

Eventually there's nowhere left to look and Wesley returns to his office. Sits on the couch. He closed the door, but Spike walks through.

"I really should install some wards," Wesley says.

Spike is poking at the dagger hanging on his wall.

"That was a subtle hint," Wesley says.

Spike looks up, wide-eyed. "What, for me? Bugger. Here I thought we were starting to be mates."

Below the dagger is the large bloodstain where the cyborg bled out. Housekeeping has already removed the body. Presumably it keeps his father's robot company in a dumpster or a storage bin somewhere.

He stands again, because if he doesn't, he'll collapse from exhaustion. It's nearly dawn.

No, it _is_ dawn, but the curtains are drawn against the light.

He can't possibly sleep when he knows what dreams he'll have. He notices that Spike isn't leaving.

Spike knocks the dagger off the wall and it embeds itself an inch into the floor. "Spike, if you don't leave this moment, I'm quite sure I can find a way to motivate you."

Spike turns, grinning. "Ooh, can it be torture? Haven't had a good spot of torture in ages."

Wesley presses the heels of his hands to his eyes--he can't keep them open any more. Spike continues: "Not since--well, since my epic battle for the future of humanity. That Caleb bloke knocked me around a bit, and I'm sure darling Xander got in a few punches as well, though I can't rightly recall."

"Loss of memory? Do tell me you're dissolving from the inside out," Wesley says from behind his arms.

"Nah. Just the beatings all run together after a while." Spike pauses, and Wesley hears the creak of leather. "Are you going to cry?"

"No."

"Well. Good. Men crying. Isn't natural."

"I take it back. Yes, I'm bawling my eyes out," Wesley says, hoping it'll get Spike to leave. They're both English. A bit of embarrassment usually works.

But when he lowers his hands, Spike is there, half bent over, peering up under his arms. "What _are_ you doing?" Wesley asks.

"Me? Nothing," Spike says.

"Have I been anything other than clear in my desire to see you gone?"

"No." Blinking up at him. Spike's face isn't spiteful or mocking, though, but--curious? Or baffled.

Blank.

"Do you even know why you're here?" Wesley asks.

"Trapped by that bloody hunk of glass."

"I mean in my office," Wesley says, leaning against his desk.

Spike shrugs. "Like your weapon collection." He gestures to the empty space on the wall where the sword hung.

Wesley rubs the bridge of his nose. His eyes are dry as sand; his legs will barely hold him upright. There's a couch as comfortable as his own bed here. He can feel the springs against his back.

"Nothing else doing but the security fellows, Knox down in the lab and Angel upstairs. I can nearly pinch him," Spike says, looking up at the ceiling.

"Do go--no, don't. He needs his rest."

"Not like you, right?"

"I'm accustomed to being kept up by my conscience," Wesley says, and he's sure it's true although he's not exactly--he's a little hazy on the details. "I'm sure that's nothing that's ever troubled you."

Spike's back is turned as he fiddles with Wesley's dart board. "Spent four months in a cellar crazy as a fruitbat. don't you tell _me_ what troubles me," Spike says.

"Oh yes, that's _right_, your dear mad mother," Wesley says, and Spike whirls.

"Don't you"--and he bares his teeth and swings.

Right through Wesley's face.

"Points for effort," Wesley says, and when Spike recovers, his next blow connects. Hard. Lands him on the floor.

Wesley closes his eyes. Opens them and Spike is sitting on his chest staring at his own fist furiously.

"Problem?" Wesley asks.

"You're an arrogant stuck-up snobby little prig and I can't hit you properly."

"Oh _dear_," Wesley says. He could sit up--Spike has no weight or presence--but he can't quite work up the will.

Spike swivels, snakelike, and slits his eyes at him.

"I see what you're about," Spike says.

Wesley raises his eyebrows.

"If I had my prick back I'd have you over your desk in a heartbeat. _Your_ heartbeat, of course." Vampire humor. It's never funny, Wesley recalls.

"You have a rich and varied fantasy life and I'm sure there's a romance writer of some stripe who would love to hear it." Wesley sits up--through Spike--and gathers himself to stand and go _anywhere_ else when there's a dreadful, icy sensation near his testicles. He makes a shocked, strangled sound--he's not sleepy any more.

"Head Boy," Spike mutters behind him. "Whose head and whose boy is my question."

"Spike!" Wesley chokes. "Good _lord_\--_cold_!"

His knees press together automatically but that only increases the sensation. He can only guess it's Spike's ghostly hand on his body--in his body--and it's too horrible to contemplate. He pushes himself sideways.

Spike follows him on hands and knees. "Now then. Love. You don't want to dream tonight. Who else are you going to turn to? Freddie's little Knox? Angel?"

Angel--he'd had quite frighteningly vivid fantasies about Angel, back in the early years, before he knew the man quite so well. Then he would have fallen to his knees at a word. Now--Angel wouldn't ask him, and he's not entirely sure what he would say.

"You wouldn't like the way Angel treats his _boys_," Spike purrs.

"This is absurd," Wesley says, but his voice is only a whisper. "Get away."

"No," Spike says. Hands and knees, coat draped about him--he should smell like cigarette ash and graveyards but he has no smell at all. He plants a hand on the floor between Wesley's splayed legs and sticks out his tongue, lowering his head slowly, slowly until it penetrates the cloth of Wesley's trousers.

And then cold--_cold_\--electric feeling that's not truly cold but that moves over his groin until he doesn't know what he's feeling any more. He shivers convulsively and his head knocks against the wall. A dagger falls to the floor beside him, landing erect in the carpet.

Spike hums and shifts forward. Wesley _doesn't_ move. He stays still and cries out when Spike touches him again and dear _Lord_ this is entirely the wrong thing to do--

After. He's murdered. His father.

He flails away from Spike, erotic feelings entirely lost. Stands. "Out!" he says. Leans against the wall. "Get _out_. Now!"

Spike is in front of him. "I said _no_"--demon face, can he _do_ that?--oh, he can. Spike can manage the demon face, and can manage hands to rip his shirt open, and can manage teeth to bite him.

God--teeth to bite him. Hands to grab his erection and _squeeze_\--wring the spunk out of him. Wringing him out against the wall.

Spike's hands fade away, leaving only his teeth in some Cheshire cat embrace. He didn't break the skin. He's sucking on Wesley's neck with soft lips and blunt human teeth.

Oral fixation. Vampires. Pathological. Typical.

Wesley slumps to the floor. "I suppose that'll leave a mark."

Spike follows him but his teeth don't. "It had damn well better. I'm spent for the day, me." Staring fixedly at Wesley's neck. "Never managed teeth before."

Wesley ignores him and crawls to the couch. He lies down with his head pillowed on the arm, bite mark hidden against the fabric; perhaps it'll get Spike to stop staring at his neck in that alarming way.

Spike stands over the couch, watching, opaque, rubbing one thumb against the sleeve of his coat. The creak of the leather is the only sound Wesley hears as he falls fast asleep.

As he sleeps dreamlessly and without rest.

THE END.

 

All comments are welcome.


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